Lancelot and the Return of Lady Charlotte
by VivienneCrow
Summary: This is set after the end of the movie with Lancelot having lived and returning to the village he lived as a child. He meets a woman he hasnt seen in a very long time.


The Knights of the Round Table

Book One: Lancelot and the return of Lady Charlotte

Prologue

A little village three hundred miles off the coast of Ireland 

A cool breeze blowing from the East shuddered through the tiny Pagan village of Sharipa as a small infantry of Roman Soldiers rode across the green painted hills. Two masted flags, carrying the crest of the Roman Empire, flapped loudly in the breeze as the stallions and their riders came closer and closer to the under populated village.

Men fresh from the work in the fields stood next to their wives and women folk. Their hands blackened from the soil and chipped from work were placed protectively across the women's shoulders and hugged their young sons and daughters to their tattered clothed legs. One man, an obvious leader of the village stood out from the rest. His shaggy hair greasy and brown was twisted into a not at the back of his head as he stood in front of his wife and son.

Looping his dirty thumbs through the worn waistband of his almost unwearable leggings, Shea watched pensively as the Roman Riders drew closer and his eldest son's presence in the family and village pulled further away.

This was the day that Shea had been dreading ever since his son had been born fourteen years earlier. It wasn't enough that Shea had fought in the Roman Army against his people, but fifteen years out of his son's precious life was indebted to them also. And now, it seemed, the debt was about to be collected.

Whispers from among the clustered villagers carried along the wind to Shea's ears. Whispers of a fate worse then death. Whispers of a life lived in servitude. Of hard days and long nights in a land not their own. A war he was not meant to fight.

Closing his deep brown eyes Shea tried to block the words and future premonitions from forming images within his mind. His son was brave and honourable. A fighter among fighters. Shea believed his son could pull his body through the next fifteen years. But he wasn't so certain about his mind. Shea himself still carried mental scars from his years within the Roman Army. Those sorts of scars never healed. And he didn't want to inflict that kind of life long torture upon his beloved son.

"It will be alright." Hearing the softly spoken words from his wife's lips as she touched his arm Shea nodded and sighed opening his eyes to find the riders only a few hundred yards off.

"I know…I just wish…" Shaking his head Shea turned to the villagers to gouge their reaction. But if he wished to see their emotions upon their worn and tired faces then he was let down. Nothing was to be shared this day.

"Father! Father, the soldiers are here!" Hearing the cry of his eldest son Shea turned back to the North, watching as boy and horse came to stop a few feet in front of him. His son was almost as ratty and unkempt as all the villagers and their children. But his face and hands were clean from the swim he had obviously just come from. Water dripped from his curling black hair and wet circles were beginning to appear all of his clothing where it stuck to his sopping skin.

Watching his son jump from the large brown stallion Shea breathed deeply, his heart constricting from the pain of having to let him go. Clenching his fists tightly at his sides so as not to crush the boy to his chest in a fit of womanly emotion Shea nodded and waited for his son to reach him.

"'Tis time my boy. You know what you must do." Shea said in a low and unwavering voice. Nodding his son stood before him straight and proud his thin face stony and brave.

"Yes father I know. I will make you proud I promise." Both son and father turned to the East as the sound of the morning horn could be heard across the fields. The Roman's had stopped at the top of the last rise, their horses whining and prancing slightly as one soldier blew the horn once more. The sound had haunted Shea's dreams for many years. It was the same horn they had used when they had taken him those many years before. And now his son was hearing and would ride of to join a rank of doomed men.

The horn grew louder as the sound was carried faster to the village on a larger gust of wind. Cursing the Roman's and their greedy hands Shea turned back to his son and nodded towards the horse he had just dismounted.

"Best be off now. Come home soon boy. Be brave. Be safe." With that his son mounted the stallion and turned it towards the Roman Soldiers.

"Lancelot! Lancelot!" His son turned on the horse as his daughter Kacey came running from the hovel that stood behind the saddened family. She ran as fast as her little five year old legs would take her. Breathing heavily she stood beside the horse and her older brother.

"Lancelot, I made this for you. 'Tis so you don't forgets us." She said breathlessly as she handed up a piece of carved stone hanging from a leather thong fashioned into a necklace.

Staring down at the carved growling tiger head Lancelot smiled and looked upon his sister's dirty sticky face.

"I will not forget you little one. I will be back I promise." Smiling he took up the reins once more and nudged the horse into a fast gallop.

Shea watched, his arm slung around his wife's quivering shoulder, as his son rode from their lives with a very good chance of never returning.

Slowing Folken, his horse, to a fast trot Lancelot blocked the urge to turn back and glance upon his family and village one last time. He knew the day when the Roman Soldiers would come to make him into a fierce warrior was fast approaching. But he never thought it would be so painful to leave his family and friends. Watching as the green hills and forestry past by in a slow blur Lancelot tried to harden his soft heart against all the emotions. Warriors didn't show feelings. Warriors didn't feel emotion. No amount of sentimental emotions or homesickness was going to keep him from becoming the warrior he wished to become. He wanted to make his father proud and nothing was going to stop him. Nothing!

Suddenly piercing pain lanced through his scull as a rock came sailing through the air. Yelping in pain Lancelot reined in Folken and placed a hand to his aching temple. He didn't feel the sticky slickness of blood or an open wound but he was sure it would be bruised and tender in the morning. Not to mention he would have a hell of a headache.

Growling he turned towards the direction of where the rock had come from. A tall corpse of ferned trees looked back at him. Watching the barely moving bushes that lined the bases of all the trees, Lancelot waited. He waited patiently for the little water spirit he knew was behind one of the bushes to show herself.

"Come out of those bushes right now, Spirit." He growled as he rubbed at his temple.

The bushes stayed eerily calm except for the occasional rustle of the breeze casting its spell upon them.

"If you don't come out from there right now I will leave and never return. I promise you that." He said smirking slightly as an outraged ten year old came running from the middle bush two more rocks clutched in her tiny white hands.

"You wouldn't dare!" She yelled in obvious annoyance. Wiggling his thin black eyebrows at her Lancelot shrugged his broadening shoulders.

"Could you blame me? Why would I want to come back to little girls throwing rocks at my head when I could stay and be worshiped for being the best warrior in the Roman Military?" He teased his laughter growing within his chest as he watched her face go bright red.

"I didn't mean…it wasn't suppose to…but…" she spluttered as he stared down at her. Finally she found what it was she had originally wanted to say.

"But you weren't even going to say goodbye to me!" She cried before her face fell and tears appeared in her sparkling forest green eyes.

The laughter that had filled his chest minutes before disappeared as he saw the obvious hurt in her tear-filled eyes.

Dismounting from the horse Lancelot knelt on the ground in front of her his hands clutching her tiny shaking arms.

"I'm sorry my water spirit. I didn't mean to forget about you. I was just so excited about joining the military," Titling her quivering chin up with his long fingers he looked deep into her eyes, "and I didn't mean to say I wouldn't come back. I promise I will come back. Just for you."

Sniffing she threw herself into his arms and hugged him tightly, her head resting against his slight shoulder.

"Promise." She whispered.

"Promise." He answered.

**Chapter One**

_Fifteen Years Later_

Raising their bows into the air, the arrows flaming from the tips, the Woad Warriors concentrated on the rolling waves of the ocean as it crashed against the rocky outcropping. At Merlin's low voiced word, they let the flaming arrows shoot from the taught bowstrings and watched them sail into the air and across the deep blue water along with the rest of the wedding party and guests.

It was the day that Arthur, the King of Knights and the Princess of the Pagans joined their hands and their people to become one. It was also a day that marked the end of the Saxon invasion and the long war between the Romans and the people who inhabited the Island they call Britain.

Now that the war was over and the scared land was able to rebuild itself, the two people had come together. Many had died in the battles and from the destruction left behind and yet the important people, those who had brought about the changes that Britain needed had survived and were now making themselves and Britain stronger.

"With the coming together of this couple comes the new beginning that both of our people have been striving for. And the immanent demise of those who call themselves the Saxons. I am proud to present to you King Arthur and his Queen, Guinevere." The proud voice of Merlin rang through the clearing to all those that where standing witness to the union of Arthur and Guinevere. Smiling the couple stood hand in hand in front of the Knights and most of Guinevere's people. Guinevere stood wearing a flowing white gown made of the softest and most expensive material that Merlin could find. Her hair, long and chestnut brown flowed down her back in waves of white and yellow flowers. A long clear veil adorned the crown of her head, covering the main of hair that licked at her back as the wind picked up slightly as she stood looking out over the faces of her people.

Arthur stood beside her wearing his battle armour, a red cape sliding down from his shoulders. The heavy metal shone brightly from the hours of cleaning it had had at the hands of the Woad women. The lean dark facial hair that had adorned his angular features throughout the entire war was now shaved clean and his curling locks of hair were sleeked back slightly. To Guinevere he looked like the most handsome man she had ever seen.

All of Arthur's Knights were also clean and wearing their shining battle armour, their weapons either hanging from their hands, shoulders or sheaths from the waist. All were in attendance.

All accept one. Lancelot.

"Lancelot should have been here." Guinevere said quietly to Arthur's right. Her features were slightly sad and pinched but she still looked radiant and ethril like the warrior Queen she was.

"I know. But he is now in safe hands. He would have wished us to have a good day today." Arthur reassured her. But his face was also sad and drawn. Not having his best friend, his brother in arms, beside him at the most important moment in his life was like a knife to the gut. Clasping his wife's hand Arthur stepped down from the platform where they had been joined and made his way towards the line that his Knights had made in front of the crowd of Woads.

Tristan his best archer stood at the forefront, his loyal eagle sitting upon his left shoulder. His dark hair was pulled back for once from his face in a loose ponytail at the back of his head. The black triangle that adorned his right cheek stood out against the unusually clean tan of his skin. The armour that clad all the other Knights was missing from his slender yet muscular body. In its place was the warn and brown leather that any archer would wear to keep himself agile and fast moving.

Beside him stood the imposing and leather statues of Bors and Dagonet. Bors's woman and haggle of children stood behind him, smiling and gleaming at the bride and groom.

"'Tis a fine day for such a wedding," Bors said joyfully clamping a large paw of a hand around Arthur's strong flexible one, "But now my son, number three, is pushing me to marry his mother. There's nothing for me to do." He grinned as his son punched him in the arm before pushing him back behind his bulking frame.

Laughing Guinevere moved along the line greeting Galahad and Gawain, exchanging stories and merriment. But along with the merriment of the day was a dark cloud of sorrow. For all new that there was one warrior missing from the line. One that held a special place in everyone's heart. Especially the new King's.

"Lancelot would have stood proudly beside you, Arthur." Tristan said loyally as he let his bird take flight from his shoulder.

"I'm sure he would have. He's here in spirit. He wouldn't miss this for the world I'm sure." Arthur replied although his heart had doubts. Even though most people thought him blind to the affections that Lancelot so obviously had for Guinevere, Arthur could see what had taken place behind Lacnelot's eyes when they had wondered to view upon his brand new wife.

It should have bothered him that the only man he had ever trusted had obviously had feelings for the love of his life. But he knew that Lancelot would have never done anything with those feelings. Guinevere was his. And Lancelot had known that.

"He is missed this day." Dagonet said breaking Arthur's thoughts. Nodding Arthur clapped the big warrior on the shoulder as Dagonet picked up the little boy that they had found along with Guinevere those many months before.

"Lancelot! You made it!" Hearing the happy shout of his bride Arthur turned to find the drawn and tired face of his chief Knight Lancelot.

A white cloth was wrapped around his shoulder and across his left arm, slinging it so that he didn't move it much. The wound had nearly healed but he had been made to stay in bed for a little over three weeks to make sure the wound didn't open again.

They all thought he had been lost in the last battle. The bolt that had been shot by the Saxon leaders son had barely missed his heart. If it had entered Lancelot's chest any lower he surely would have died.

Hugging Guinevere softly to his chest Lancelot smiled and nodded towards Arthur.

"I couldn't very well let my best friend go off and marry his woman all by himself. Every party needs a good looking merry maker," Turning to the other Knights Lancelot shot them a slightly tired smile, " and I highly doubt any of these barbarians are up to the task."

"As long as you do not over tax yourself I am happy you are here Lancelot. The day wouldn't have been the same without you." Arthur said clapping his best friend on the shoulder.

Grinning, the dark goatee of his facial hair standing out from the white pallor of his skin, Lancelot smiled a genuine smile revealing his happiness of the day.

"Of course the day wouldn't have been the same. Who wouldn't want the Great Lancelot, defender of the small and innocent, present at such an auspicious occasion?" Taking Guinevere's hand softly within his free strong one Lancelot turned her over to Arthur.

"Now that I am here we can begin to celebrate. I'm sure I smelt a delicious meal being cooked in the kitchen. It should be ready by now." Lancelot said loudly to the crowd. Boisterous yells of approval erupted from the Knights and the crowd of Woads. Bowing low to Arthur and Guinevere Lancelot smiled.

"After you my King and Queen."

Cringing Lancelot rubbed the joint of his shoulder with his index and second finger, the tense muscles paining him immensely. Of all the wounds he had accumulated in battle the one to his shoulder was noticeably the worst. He had never felt such pain or such discomfort. The laundrium that had been placed in his room every day since the battle was gone and he wouldn't be sent another vile until that night so that he could sleep. If he was anything but the warrior he had been trained to be he would have been whining in bed of the pain by now.

Grasping the soft leather collar of his brown tunic, he pulled it back from his sweating skin to view the wound, which had been bound tightly. The white guise of the bandage clung to his skin tightly, and was slightly wetter where his wound was located. He hadn't opened the wound, but the infection that he had gotten was only just healing. Clear fluids were still seeping from the wound.

Fixing his collar he leaned forward and grabbed the tankard of ale that was sitting in front of him. Taking a long swig of the bitter drink Lancelot viewed the occupants of the large dinning room over the rim of the jug. Arthur and Guinevere were sitting at the head of the table smiling and talking happily with whoever came bay. Lancelot sat opposite Arthur with Tristan and Gawain close beside him. Next came Bors, Dagonet and Galahad. The Woads sat on Guinevere's side with the Sorcerous Merlin sitting on her right talking animatedly with her.

It was a merry time and Lancelot was happy to be apart of it. But something kept nagging at him. At his mind and heart. The scene before, although rich and exuberant, was very similar to the feasts his family use to have in their quiet little village. He would always sit next to his father at the head of the table with his little sister and brother beside him and his uncle and aunt on the other side of his father with his mother serving everyone. It wasn't quiet as big as the wedding feast that was taking place or have the delicious and mouth-watering delicacies that were present but it was special and wholesome in its own way.

Fifteen years had past and Lancelot and the other Knights were free of their service for the Roman Empire and yet Lancelot still couldn't bring himself to go home like he had promised. Too many things had happened. Too many things that he believed had happened because he had left his family and his village. Left them to defend themselves.

Shaking his head, his eyes closed against the images Lancelot tried to dispel the image of his home and family. The image of what had happened to…

"Lancelot, are you feeling well my friend?" Arthur's concerned voice broke through the devastating images that plagued Lancelot night and day.

Opening his eyes he looked into Arthur's concerned ones. Here was where he belonged right now. Next to his King and fellow Knights.

"Yes. I guess I've just over done it is all. I think I might make my way to bed. But do not worry I will be right as rain come morning. Most likely thinking of ways to drag Bors's woman from him." Grinning Lancelot turned to the outraged yell from Bors.

"Touch my women and be prepared to be squired like a fish!" He cried brandishing a leg of lamb like a sword.

"I've done more than touch her Bors. Those bastards of yours didn't just come out thin air." Wagging the leg one more time Bors grinned and roared in laughter before going back to talking with Dagonet and consuming his meal and drink.

Chuckling Lancelot turned back to Arthur.

"Before I leave though, what news of the men in the northern pass?" He asked directing the conversation to the small skirmishes and battles wagging between the Saxons and Arthur's army.

"The last missive they sent told of the continuing enlarging of the Saxon army. Things seem to be going back to the way they were. The Saxon's are becoming greedy of the land they believe is theirs. If it does not change in the next month or two we may have to go out their ourselves and sort things out." Arthur answered with slight twinkle in his eyes. Lancelot new exactly how he felt. They had been fighting battles together for fifteen years and they both felt very awkward without having one to fight. They both knew their would be a day when their wouldn't be any more battles to fight. But they hoped that day wouldn't come until they were old and grey and no longer able to fight the good fight. But that was still a very long time off.

"Sounds like a plan to me. Let me know if you decide to leave earlier. I've been itching for a good fight." Lancelot replied as he stood slowly from his seat.

"I will, but you heal first. All I need now is an injured Knight trying to fight his way through dozens of Saxon's and making me save his ugly hide." Arthur shot back good-naturedly. Shaking his head Lancelot said a quick goodbye to Guinevere and began to walk towards his chamber, which was situated, on the second level of the castle that was Arthur's kingdom.

His good mood quickly departed as he walked the lonely cold steps towards his room, the shadows of the hallway seeping into his bones and heart. Memories of a long ago day and time filtered back into his mind and took over his every thought.

_Two months later_

Charlotte watched as brave warrior after brave warrior fell to the soiled blood drenched ground and breathed their last breath. The clash of metal upon metal reverberated in her scull as the men she had fought next to and lived beside for these long lonely years fought against an army that was supposed to have been disband the day Arthur had become King. But here she was, clad in tight brown leather from head to foot, a sword in one hand and the reins to her large gelding in the other. Her boot encased feet where placed firmly within the stirrups as she steered the horse slowly towards a section of her men who had become dangerously close to loosing their lives. Shrugging one slender shoulder she flipped the tail end of her long braid over one shoulder and nudged Antioch, her horse, in to a fast gallop. Snorting his agreement with his new found fast pace Antioch carried his Mistress towards the distressed men who were now fighting over more then twenty men to their ten. Giving a loud battle cry Charlotte swung her sword high above her head as she rounded the group of blood thirsty Saxons. A few who had heard her battle cry turned from slashing at the much smaller group of soldiers and snarled at her. Dropping her shoulder slightly she let the long silver blade, already splattered with blood, descend towards the middle Saxons. He gave a guttural sound of surrender as the tip of the blade sliced quickly and swiftly across his neck from one ear to the other. A thin line of blood appeared across his throat as he fell to his knees, his dirty hands unsuccessfully trying to staunch the flow of blood that was now dribbling down his chest towards the ground. Looking up at Charlotte his eyes loosing their lustre quite quickly, he fell forward and hit the ground with a thud. He was dead.

Wiping the long blade of her sword against the leather that wrapped tightly around her slender thighs Charlotte looked to the two other Saxons who had turned. One had been impaled from behind through the stomach by one of her soldiers, his guard having been brought down by her cry. The other was staring at his fallen comrade, stunned from the swiftness of the attack. Soon he would turn to her, turn and give a loud bloodthirsty cry for revenge. Soon the Saxon would want blood from the Lady Warrior for the life that he believed should not have been taken.

Charlotte felt the pull of small smirk slide across her lips. She had been fighting for most of her life. It was the only thing she was good at. Unlike other women of her country who were learning how to cook and clean, and master the art of needlework, Charlotte had been learning how to fight and survive against those who believed that Britain was their country. Everyday of her life had been about surviving and making it to the next day without sustaining life-threatening injuries. Her life was that of a Warrior not of a Lady in which her parents had wanted her to be.

But her parents had died the day her village had been raided by the Saxons years before hand. She had been only twelve at the time. The Saxons had burnt her village to the ground and killed every man in sight. The women had been taken and were made into their slaves. Some cooked. Some slaved over hot branding irons to create more weapons, and those who were unlucky or lucky depending on who you spoke to, become the bedroom slaves to the soldiers. Those who became the mistresses of the soldiers were well looked after, not ever having to lift a finger or worry about where their next meal was coming from. Yet they still had to satisfy those who wished of them with their most precious possession. Their bodies.

Shuddering from the remembered horrors, those horrors that would be branded upon her brain for the rest of her life, Charlotte snarled and let out another bloodthirsty cry as she plunged her sword deep into the chest of the third soldier. He met with resistance at first before she thrust more deeply and felt the tip rip through skin, fat, organs and bones before appearing out the back of the man. Stunned the soldier fell backwards and was dead before he hit the ground.

Looking around her, her forest green eyes cold and assessing, Charlotte watched again as her men began to fall to the power of the Saxons. It was her village all over again. And again _King_ Arthur's men were not there to protect them like they had been promised. It was a promise given to make them feel better about sending their sons off to do battle for a country that wanted to posses them.

Tightening her ivory hand around the hilt of her sword Charlotte narrowed her eyes, feeling the old familiar rage of the injustice done to her people began to boil her blood stream. If the Saxons weren't threatening their lives, Charlotte knew that her and her men would never have done battle. Would have never help the Kingdom of Arthur rid Britain of the Saxon army. The Saxons were Arthur's problem. They had never bothered her people before. Not until her people had decided to align themselves with Arthur and his men. _Because of that bitch Guinevere,_ she thought bitterly.

She had met the now Queen once before. They had never been formerly introduced but she had watched the women from afar. She had still been a naive child at the time and thought that the female warrior was someone to look up to. Someone to be proud of for all the things she had done for her, their people. But that image of Guinevere had been dashed the day she had taken up with Arthur and his Roman Army. The very army that their people had wanted to avoid.

And now because of their allegiance Charlottes men and people were suffering, while Arthur, his men and _Lady_ Guinevere were being pampered and well fed behind the high walls of the castle.

This was Arthur's war. But who was fighting it for him?

The Woads of course.

Licking his wind burnt lips as he looked over the battle that was raging before him, Lancelot held his horse back from bolting into the fray just as he was itching to do. But he held back. He had no idea why. But for some reason the battle that he was now watching held old memories. There was just something about it that sent his mind back to his village and the fate of it almost the instant he left.

Rotating his right shoulder to relieve some of the tension that had begun to build up there Lancelot kicked Folken his horse in the flanks lightly to urge him closer to the battle. Arthur and the rest of the knights had already made their way down into the valley that was playing host to the battle between the Saxons and the Woads. But Lancelot had stayed back, wanting to survey, which would be his best course of entry and action. At least that was what he was telling himself.

For some reason he didn't want to join in the fight. It was as if he knew that if he did something was going to happen that would change his life forever. And right now he didn't need his life uprooted and turned around.

Guilt still gnawed at him for his inability at not being able to defend his village when they had needed him most.

"_I am sorry son, but there were no survivors."_ He heard his first Captains voice echo in his mind after he had been sent to Lancelot's village after they had word of the attack. Lancelot had wanted to go, had wanted to see for himself that his village had indeed been destroyed by the Saxons. But his military training had come before anything else.

Looking down, Lancelot reached beneath the neckline of his tunic and pulled the thin leather strap that hugged his thick neck. At the junction of the strap was a pendent. It was smaller and lighter then the snarling lions head that his sister had given him, but it was no less precious to him.

It was of jade and smoothed expertly into the shape of a water drop. He had given it to his Water Spirit for her tenth birthday. She had adored the gift and had worn it every day since. His Captain had given it to him the day he had returned from surveying the village. The pendent had proven to him that his water spirit had been killed along with the rest of the village. She would never have taken it off otherwise. Clenching the water drop pendent in his fist he closed his eyes tightly. Images of his family and friends being slain by the Saxons running rampage through his mind.

Letting out an almost animal howl of rage and pain Lancelot spurred Folken into battle, galloping down into the valley. His mind was totally cut off from the rest of the world. The only thing he could contemplate was the fact that these were Saxons and Saxons had killed his family and his water spirit. He was bloodthirsty and he wanted to take vengeance.

At his presence Saxons warriors came from left and right, crying out in rage as they raised their swords wanting to slay the Roman Soldier. Lancelot kept his thighs tightly clenching Folken as he wiped his swords, one in each hand, back and forth, cutting down man after man, soldier after soldier.

Through the blade and gore that had began to splatter and cover his armour and face Lancelot could see Arthur a few feet away battling two Saxons as Bors and Dragonet protected his back. Tristian and Galahad were to his left cutting down three men at a time, as they stood back to back allowing none of their weaknesses to be used against them. Lancelot could find no sign of Gawain but he knew that the fierce warrior would be around somewhere defending his King and Country with more passion then anyone could ask for.

Another Saxon came out of nowhere as Lancelot whipped his head around to look for Guinevere. She had come in spite of Arthur's protests. She had been warrior once before, she had protested, and she would continue to be one. Although Arthur was content in the fact that his wife was a capable warrior and could protect herself, Lancelot was more reserved in his feelings. He had grown up believing all women were to be protected. To be kept safe and away from the death and mayhem of battle no matter if they were capable or not. If she had been his women…shaking his head to banish the thoughts Lancelot turned his attention back to the Saxon who was now running full pelt towards him, a sword held tightly in one hand above his head.

Reaching behind his shoulders with both hands, he unsheathed his swords that crossed at the base of his spine. A loud _shing_ rent the air as they came loose and glittered in the early morning sunlight as he swung them above his head before scissoring them down to cut the Saxon's head from his broad shoulders. Blood spurted left right and centre as the shocked head rolled across the round before coming to a stop a few feet away. The headless torso kneeled before toppling over and lay still against the already blood strewn earth.

Staring at the headless body for a few more moments Lancelot questioned the reasons why he had even become a soldier. He hated the fact that blood and death were apart of his life, but at the same time he knew he wouldn't be able to live without knowing that he was a warrior.

Nudging Folken towards Arthur, who was now battling three more Saxons, Lancelot brandished his swords back and forth in the air giving off a fierce battle cry. Straightening his long, muscled legs in the stirrups he prepared to jump from Folken onto the two large Saxons who were now both fighting Arthur, both with broadswords. Giving another battle cry Lancelot bounded from the saddle of his horse and landed on both of the Saxons taking them to the ground with him.

Grunts of pain followed the tumble to the ground and within seconds Arthur had hauled Lancelot off both of them and was now slashing at them with his own swords, rendering them helpless and unable to fight.

"Lancelot, are you all right?" Arthur said gravely as he grasped his right arm. Lancelot nodded and was about to speak when he felt a searing pain lance across his arm; seconds after Arthur had pulled him out of the full thrust of the Saxon sword.

Cringing with pain Lancelot spun around and slammed the hilt of his sword into the sneering face of the Saxon. The Saxon fell and didn't get up.

"Obviously you are." Laughed Arthur as he slapped Lancelot good-naturedly on the back.

Smirking slightly Lancelot nodded and turned to mount his horse once more. But Folken was no longer where he had left him. Spinning around he searched for his horse. It was the only thing he had left of his old life. He loved that horse and he wouldn't give him up without a fight. Arthur was now fighting with another Saxon his back to Lancelot. Swinging his swords around in an arc before sheathing them again Lancelot swivelled around again his horse an elusive shadow instead of the large beast he had grown up with.

Without warning pain shot through his scull and down his spine with lightening intensity. Spinning slowly around he faced the Saxon who had smacked him in the back of the head with the hilt of his sword. Snarling, the pain still thumping through his scull Lancelot pulled his swords out once more and prepared to fight the Saxon, intending to kill him and continue on with finding his horse.

But the Saxon had other ideas. Grabbing Lancelot around the neck with his beefy hand the Saxon grinned and began to tighten his grip intending to squeeze the life out of him. Gripping the hilt of his long silver swords Lancelot gasped one more breath before he plunged the sword deep into the stomach of the Saxon. It did nothing but anger him.

Twisting the hilt Lancelot arched his knees and placed the souls of his feet against the Saxons chest. Pushing fiercely with his thighs he pulled himself from the Saxons grip. Falling back he landed on the ground, the Saxon growling above him pulling his sword from deep in his stomach. Getting quickly to his knees Lancelot grabbed his other sword, which had fallen to the ground and prepared to swing it swiftly at the Saxon. Pain shot up his right arm from the wound, which he thought had healed nicely. Obviously it hadn't. He could barely lift his sword arm the pain was so intense. Looking up he realized the Saxon was still coming for him, murderous intent in his cold eyes. Shuddering with the realization that he might die Lancelot gripped the hilt of his dagger tighter and again tried to lift it from the ground. It wouldn't budge. His arm was dead to the world and useless to him. Shutting his eyes for a brief moment he thought about all the days he had spent with his parents and sister and his friends. Of the years he had spent training to be the warrior he had so wanted to be. And of his Water Spirit, the childhood friend who had made his life that much better.

Picturing the sweet face of the girl he had left so long ago Lancelot opened his eyes and looked at the Saxon who was about to slay him. The Saxon who was about to kill the legendary Lancelot.

Seconds before the Saxon brought the sharp edge of the blade across Lancelot's throat a loud piercing; very feminine battle cry rent the air. Both Lancelot and the Saxon looked up to find a Woad Warrior sitting atop a large gelding. Her long raven hair was pulled back into a braid behind her head and slender body was clad in tight clinging brown leather. Her face was pale and attractive but at that moment it was scrunched into a fierce battle face, red from the sun and the rage coursing through her veins.

The large black gelding reared high and hard at her urging as she pulled back the large blade she carried. The second the horse hit the ground once more, the women arced the blade down and cut through the throat of the Saxon. He fell to the ground in a dead heap. Throwing the blade to the ground she held out her hand to Lancelot her face still fiery and mean.

"Hurry!'' She said fiercly urging him to stand and mount the horse behind her. Lancelot grudgingly did so; deftly mounting the horse and sheathing his sword across his back once more.

As the Lady Warrior spurred the horse on Lancelot reached down and grabbed his sword from the dead Saxon's hands before sheathing that sword as well.

"Take the reins Lancelot, you are not able to battle. But I am." The Lady Warrior said fiercly to him as she pulled his arms around her waist to take the reins in front of her. Shock coiled through him at the use of his name from the lips of women he didn't even know. But of course he had accepted that he was legendary among the British people. That did not mean that they could pick him without ever having met him. Without thinking he reached around her slender waist and took the leather reins. Her long dapple arms reached up behind him, placing her head inches from his at his shoulder and giving him a perfect view of her large and smooth breasts, as she gripped his swords and pulled them free.

"When this is over I wish to know how you know me fair warrior." Lancelot whispered in the tiny shell ear that sat inches from his lips.

The women said nothing just swung his heavy swords in circles on either side of the horse, testing their weight before wielding them into battle once more.

**Chapter Two **

Moonlight filtered through the large arched window that stood on the west wall of Charlotte's chamber as she sat on the edge of her feather filled bed. Her long raven hair was let loose from the severe braid that she always held it in and was now cascading down her slender back. Fingering the soft material of the nightgown she had been given Charlotte looked out the window watching the breeze riffle through the leaves of the trees that lined Arthur's kingdom.

The battle against the Saxons had lasted two days ending in the defeat of the evil Saxons. She was glad the battle was over but she hated the fact that her and her men had been _saved_ by Arthur and his men. She had to admit they wouldn't have been so lucky if it hadn't been for the Knights.

Growling in frustration at the knowledge that she had left her men's lives in the hands of the Roman Soldiers Charlotte stood and walked to the window. Placing her slender white hand against the cold stone of the wall she glanced down at the training grounds that were now deserted and drenched in moonbeams. To the left of the training area were the stables and even from the height of her bedchamber she could here the contented wicker of horses. If only she were as contented. She felt more like a prisoner then a guest like her horse was most likely feeling right now.

Three weeks had passed since the day of the battle. And yet she hadn't been let out of her room for more then a few hours to walk the gardens for much needed fresh air. _It's for your own good_, the old woman kept telling her every time she closed the door and locked her in.

Leaning further out the window to glance down at the ground far below, she could see the dark outline of two guards at the door that stood below her window. Swivelling she looked at the door that occupied the other wall. She could see the feet shadows of the other door guards that were posted outside her door through the gap at the bottom of the door. Bitterly she turned back to stare down at the practice yards.

She would never escape with so many guards around. _They_ had made sure of that. Anyone would believe she was a danger to other people, or that she had done something wrong. Not that she was in injured warrior trying to recover from battle. She couldn't understand what they must be thinking she would try and pull in her condition.

Running a light hand across her stomach carefully she cringed at the slight pain that ran through her abdomen. It had happened just after she had saved Lancelot's life. They had been riding through the battle, her swinging his swords back and forth cutting down anyone who got in their way, and him trying to keep the horse on course from behind her. She had been trying to fight off two Saxon's one on each side when a third had come up behind her with a small dagger. Plunging it into her stomach from the side he had been kicked in the face by Lancelot before he manoeuvred the horse to bump him to the ground. In any other battle she would have continued on, killed many more Saxons. But that shock of seeing Lancelot all over again had weakened her system had sent her mind into overdrove and made her weak and unable to finish what she had started. Thus she had slumped against his broad chest and passed out. The last thing she heard was his gently whispered words.

"Don't die on me, I still have to find out who you are."

Shaking her head to extinguish the memories from her addled brain. She hadn't seen him since that day. He hadn't sought her out and hadn't demanded to know who she was. And for that she was thankful. She wasn't yet ready to let him know that his precious Water Spirit was still alive.

The pain of loosing her family and anger at him for not returning when his duty was done was too fresh for her to think she could stand in front of him without exploding.

Running the pads of her fingers against the cold stones of the wall she watched as a shadowy figure walked slowly along the stable walls and out onto the practices fields. He was tall and well built, wearing only leather jerking's and a billowing white shirt that hung down across his thick thighs. Charlotte could see nothing but the back of him as he walked purposefully towards a tree that had been made into a practice shield for the knights to practice their swordsmanship on. She could tell by the why the moon shone, reaching down to him that his hair was thick and midnight black, curling around his neck and ears slightly with its length. Pale flesh peeked out from beneath the sleeves and neckline of his shirt as he whipped the two blades he held up and around his head before slashing them across the trunk of the gnarled tree.

Again Charlotte knew that the moon was playing tricks on her colour perspective as she knew beyond a doubt that the man's skin was olive tanned and not as pale as she could see right now. He had always been tanned; his life being lived out in the sun had made sure of that.

Back and forth his arms went, slashing and hacking at the old tree, his breath coming out in pants of exertion misty against the cold wind. The corded muscles she knew would appear after many years of battle and training bunched and clenched beneath the white tunic as he practiced. She had seen many men battle in less then he was wearing but no other man had ever made her heart flip flop in her chest or make her skin tingle just from the site of him training. But Lancelot had always done that to her. Even when she but a mere child.

He had been her knight in shining armour then; to her chagrin he still was now. The thought of what he had done or not done still made her blood boil and her temper erupt, but that didn't stop the desire she felt for him slide through her veins making her act the fool she had tried so hard not to be.

"He is very handsome is he not?" At the sound of a feminine voice behind her Charlotte whipped around, her cheeks flaming slightly from being caught doing what she wished she hadn't.

Looking at the ethereal figure of _Lady_ Guinevere Charlotte felt the familiar anger rise up again. It seared her blood and stung the veins in which it ran.

"All Roman Soldiers believe themselves to be handsome, he is no exception." Charlotte snapped sarcastically back, her equilibrium slowly coming back to her.

"Ah, but that is not what I said. 'Tis true most Soldiers or Warriors think themselves handsome, whether it be true or not. But few, a very small few, are as handsome as they believe. Lancelot is one of the very few. Along with Arthur." Smiling her pale cheeks dimpling slightly Guinevere moved slowly to the window in which Charlotte had been glancing out of. Standing directly beside her Guinevere placed her slender hand against the stonewall and bent to look out, her body regel and Queen-like.

"You knew him before didn't you?" The softly spoken question threw Charlotte once more.

_She knows nothing; she is but making conversation, _a voice in her head reassured her. And yet Charlotte felt herself erecting the safety walls that felt so familiar to her. Glancing down at Lancelot she mentally shook herself, reminding herself she was a warrior and the Lancelot she was now looking upon was nothing of the old Lancelot she had known as a child. He had changed. And so had she.

"You do not remember me?" Charlotte said in way of answering. Guinevere turned her face slightly, the moon casting a shadow across one pale cheek.

"Oh I remember you Charlotte, you were sixteen when I last saw you, and what a fierce sixteen you were. I knew then that you would become a very capable warrior and leader to our people. But I did not realize how beautiful you would soon become." She said evenly, her face full of pride and joy as if she had been mother and was now looking upon her grown daughter.

Feeling very uncomfortable Charlotte turned to look back down at the practice fields. Bad idea!

Lancelot was no longer hacking at the tree but standing, his sword blades places against his shoulders as he stared levelly up at the window she was now standing full view in. His eyes sought hers, an unspoken message written across their inking depths.

He looked so handsome standing their, fierce and proud sweating and panting, cloaked in a veil of moonlight. But she could tell that behind those beguiling eyes lay a very intelligent mind that was now ticking away trying to figure where he had seen her before. Where he had known her because he felt it singing through his veins that they had known one another before. Just as the feeling was washing over her.

The difference between them was that Charlotte knew where they had met, and she knew of all the broken promises and shattered futures that had taken place between then and now. She felt all the sorrow and pain of the intervening years that had meant nothing to him and everything to her.

Stepping back from the window cloaking herself in darkness once more she turned to Guinevere.

"Am I able to leave this room? Or am I still prison?" She asked with as much scorn as she could master.

_Who is she?_ Lancelot thought as he stared up at the window, his chest rising and falling steadily with every breathe he took of the chill winter air.

He had not seen her since the day of the battle against the Saxon, when _she_ had saved _his_ life. They had battled together neither letting the other out of their sights as they slaughtered as many Saxons as they could, saving themselves and many other warriors in the process. She had been fierce and unstoppable. Not lying down her sword even when she had been exhausted and about to topple over. She fought and fought well.

He had met many knights in his time that couldn't hold a candle to her devotion and strength on the battle field, he was shocked to admit that even he couldn't have kept going if she hadn't' been there to bolster him.

It had been nearly a month since he had last seen her and yet her face haunted him. It wasn't that he was obsessed with her, just the fact that she knew him and he couldn't discern her kept nagging at him. Frustration was something fleeting and dealt with quickly in his world. But the fact that she continued to plague his mind day and night was giving frustration an all together knew meaning for him.

Every time he glanced at her he was for some reason reminded of his life back in the old village. Of his family and friends whom he had left and never seen again. Of his water spirit.

Shaking his head he tried to dispel the painful image of Spirit from his mind. He had thought of her little over the past few years, the pain to intense him. She was dead and he accepted that. She had died because he had become a Roman Soldier and he accepted that as well. All the things that had happened to his village had been out of his control. But the memories and the pain, which he could control and control it he would.

Watching the emotions fleet across the women's face, one chasing after the other, Lancelot tried once again to think of where he had once met her. Of the time in which they may have been friends. For the emotions that she stirred within him could only have come from more then one meeting. He would never feel this way about a chance encounter with some stranger.

But for the life of him he couldn't figure it out. And that one fact irritated and frustrated him more then he chose to admit. He watched as she stared down upon him, her eyes lush and green spitting fire and brimstone. The cause of which he was unsure. She moved back, stepping herself into the shadows and away from his probing eyes before he had a chance to contemplate any of his questions and the answers to them.

Shaking his head he turned to move towards his chamber and the sanctum of a bath. Tristan and his bird stopped him.

"Why is she so important to you?" Tristan asked without a moment's hesitation.

That was always Tristan's way. He wasn't one to beat around the bush; it was always straight to the point and to and hell with the consequences.

"Why is that whenever I look upon a fair maiden, you all think that she of some great importance to me?" Lancelot shot back stabbing the points of his blades into the soft soil before shedding his sweat drenched tunic. Walking over to the water barrel that stood not two feet from the stables gates he began to splash himself with the refreshing coolness of the spring water.

"Because my friend, whenever you look upon fair maid you seems to look as if you wish she were someone else. Someone you have let go of in another life. But when you look upon this fair maid," he said pointing to the window in which the women had just disappeared from, "'Tis as though you have come home. You look at her like you have been searching for her for your entire life and have only now just found her. That, Sir Lancelot, is way we all ask why she is of such importance to you."

Sucking in a deep breath, the truth of the matter hitting him squarely in the gut, Lancelot stared at the stable wall. Tristan was right of course. Lancelot had felt that every time he looked at a woman, he wasn't seeing her, but the women he wished she were. Yet he had never known whom that women was until he had seen the one who had saved his life.

If he didn't find who she was soon he knew he would go out of his mind. Closing his eyes, his palms pressed against the hard wood of the stables he breathed deeply, his mind turning over many possibilities of who she could be.

"What of your woman, Tristan?" He asked absentmindedly.

Snorting Tristan turned and leant his back against the stable, his hip inches from the water barrel.

"What woman? She runs whenever she sees me. I do not even know her name for she will not let me close enough to ask it of her." His tone was melancholy and so pathetic that Lancelot could not help the chuckle from escaping his throat. Tristan had always been the type of man to go after what he wanted. And if he didn't get it then he wasn't one to dwell on it. He would just move on and forget about it. Obviously the little mouse of a woman whom had caught his attention held more then passing interest for him. Lancelot had never seen him like this before. So turned about and unsure of himself.

"Although I have to say this sad and depressed look you have is quite amusing, I can not bare to see the maid miss out an experience such as yourself. Her name is Evadeen and she has a terrible weakness for silver pendants." Lancelot replied.

Tristan looked at him suspiciously as if to say how would you know of this information?

"Do not worry my friend, I know of all this because sweet Evie and I have a bargain with one another." Chuckling at the furious expression that crossed Tristan's face, Lancelot held up his hands in mock surrender, " again do not worry, she is much to meek for my tastes, my women must be fierce and willing to fight. We are but friends, I bring her silver and she gives me warm, clean bathwater instead of lukewarm and barely drinkable."

Running his fingers through the damp locks of his hair Lancelot turned and leaned against the water barrel, his arms crossed over his muscular chest.

"She will weaken and come to you, of this I am sure." He said slowly as he again glanced up at the dark window.

"If only you put this much work into acquiring a women of your own as you do into gaining bathwater, I fear you would have been married long ago Lancelot. And raising a whole brood of children." Tristan said mockingly as he straightened.

Lancelot snorted in disgust at the image Tristan's words conjured up in his mind. He would never have a wife and he had killed to many men to even think about bringing another life into this world.

"Do not take all that I have said to heart, tis just conversational banter. Now come Arthur wishes to speak to us." Tristan said clapping his hand upon Lancelot's shoulder. Nodding Lancelot glanced once more up at the window before walking away with Tristan.

_I will found out who you are._

"She believes herself to be a prisoner." Guinevere said slowly as she sat within the warm folds of the bed her and Arthur shared. Arthur himself was standing at a small circular table that held a ceramic bowl full of water. He was naked from the waist up and water was sliding down his strong, scar covered back as he washed himself.

"She is no prisoner and I believe she knows that. But if I were to let her have leave of the castle you know that Lancelot would not leave her be. He would want to know who she was and why she had saved him. He will be like a mongrel with a bone." Shaking his head, his shaggy hair glistening with droplets of water he grabbed the rag next to the bowl and began to towel himself dry as he walked slowly over to the bed.

"If you are afraid for her safety among your men, especially Lancelot, then you have nothing to fear fair King. She can defend herself." At the look of uncertainty Arthur gave her Guinevere cocked one finely arched brow, "You think I jest? What of me? I came to you the fair maiden and before weeks end I had saved you and your knights with but the nails of my fingers."

"Yes, but you weren't through much more then any woman should have to. You prospered from the harshness of your life. When I look in this woman's eyes I do not see what I see in your eyes. She may be strong now, but things will happen and she will break. I can see this and I don't wish for this to happen." He said in answer as he shucked his pants and moved beneath the covers.

"I knew her." Guinevere said without hesitation as she slid down further into the bed, her head now resting on Arthur's chest, "She came to our tribe when she was only sixteen. She was strong and fierce yet I could see a great sadness about her, hollowness to her eyes. It was as if she had lost the will to live and yet could not let go of her life. And now that I see her again I can still notice that sadness, but it has grown, grown into an unattainable hatred. For who I do not know, but it is there. There beneath the green sadness of her eyes."

Caressing her long chestnut hair Arthur glanced down at her beneath his thick lashes wondering whether or not what she said was true.

"When she looks upon Lancelot that sadness disappears. Brightness comes to her body and the child she once might have been shines through. There is still hatred but it is shadowed by the contentment I see. I believe they knew one another as children. Maybe they are from the same village. The one Lancelot speaks of so fondly?"

"Why do you believe this?" Arthur asked softly as he moved his hand to her back to gently the rub the tension of the day away.

"Because I see the same emotion in her eyes when she looks upon Lancelot as I see in yours when you speak with your Knights." She replied, her hand cupping his cheek gently, her eyes delving into his, "That kind of unnameable emotion can only come from being around someone for a measure of time. You grew up with Lancelot and the other knights, fought and trained beside and with them. Charlotte looks upon Lancelot as if she knows the real person inside, the child that is hidden beneath the man. Mark my words Arthur, there's much to be known about Lady Charlotte, but none will be known by Lancelot. Not until she is ready." Sighing she closed her eyes and prepared to sleep, her body exhausted from the days work.

Arthur continued to rub his wife's back, lulling her to sleep as he stared at the ceiling her words soaking into his mind. Could Lancelot and this Charlotte have known each other before? It seemed that way with Charlotte. But Lancelot professed to never have seen her.

_No wonder she's so prickly around him,_ Arthur thought. She must be very hurt that he did not remember her. But from the way she acted around Lancelot, she seemed not to want him to know they had met before.

But why?

**Chapter Three**

Leaves, branches and twigs slashed at the pale skin of Charlotte's face and arms. Her breathing was laboured and her legs were sore but she kept running. Nothing would keep her from running. Not the burning pain searing through her calves or the aching in her chest as less and less air was sucked in through her frozen lips.

She couldn't stand being couped up in the tiny tower chamber she had been forced to endure through the weeks of her healing. But now, with her wounds completely healed and her finely toned muscles turning to mush, Charlotte couldn't take the tiny room any longer. She needed the fresh winter air in her lungs the rough leaf strewn ground beneath her feet, and the frigid water of the lakes caressing her skin.

Outside was where she longed to be. She had spent most of her life outside. Killing, training, eating, sleeping, it had all been outside. And she had been denied that one desire for far too long. She was sure she had gone a little insane by now but she didn't care. She was finally outside!

Jumping a fallen log she yelled a fierce cry of triumph as she came to a clearing. Crystal clear water, slightly frozen over, stared at her as she came to a stand still beside the oval shaped lake. Trees lined the shore, creating a sentential of sorts. Without a moments hesitation she yanked at the sheer night rail that had been given to her, ripping it in places from her haste. Chucking it to the pebble coated ground she sprinted to the waters edge and split the stillness by diving straight in.

Her body reacted instantaneously to the ice-cold water. The air was knocked straight from her lungs and her skin went from pale ivory to sky blue within seconds. Tingles shot straight up her spine, zigzagging through her blood stream and thrusting out of her fingertips and toes. Her heart bumped blood faster and faster around her dainty body as she swam slowly to the surface of the water.

Long raven strands of her luxurious hair slid down her back as her face split the surface and she took a deep breath of frozen air, her lungs burning from the sheer coldness. Smiling she shook her head slightly as her shoulders emerged from the water. Her breasts felt heavy and firm, her nipples hard and puckered from the shock of the cold. She loved the feel of the water sliding over her naked body as she moved her arms in circles, trying to keep herself afloat. It was like her entire body was being wrapped in cold silk.

Charlotte had always loved the water. It had been her sanctuary from everything and everyone. But the frozen stillness of the lakes in winter had always drawn her like magic. She had never been able to resist it. The only person who knew of her vice was Lancelot. And her nickname had come from that knowledge. She didn't even know if he knew of her real name. No one had spoken it when she was in the village. It had always been Spirit. Water Spirit had been the first words to come from his mouth when he had spotted her at the village lake many winters ago.

"Be careful not to drown fair Lady." Hearing a masculine voice behind her Charlotte instinctively wrapped her arms around her body tightly before she turned to find Lancelot behind her.

He was standing upon the shore beside her torn dress, his stance arrogant and very male. His hands placed nonchalantly on his thighs as he stared at her, a male grin plastered across his sensual lips.

Damn him for ruining her only time of peace! She thought angrily as she shot daggers at him with her eyes.

"How did you find me?" She spat back moving closer to the bank so she could stand instead of treading water.

"I saw you _escaping_ the tower, so naturally I followed you." He answered as he bent to pick up her dress. Stepping closer she saw the laughter glitter in his dark eyes as he held out the dress, hanging it from his index finger.

"Naturally," She sneered between clenched teeth, "and now I'm sure that you will want to _escort_ me back to the tower. To lock me up once more and perhaps…throw away the key?" She asked watching as he swung the dress back and forth slowly. Taunting her. Daring her to stand in all her naked glory in front of him and grab the dress from him.

"Now why would you say something like that? Do I look like the type of knight who would rather lock away such beauty as I see before me instead of keeping her in the light, to shine brightly before all?" Smiling he crouched low sifting the dress through his fingers gently as he moved it towards the water, intending to soak it.

Growling her unease and discomfort with what he was doing Charlotte moved forward once more, bringing more of her body of the water. It now lapped at her chest just below the roundness of her breast. The wind chose that moment to pick up, shooting shards of icy coldness across her frozen skin.

"Yes, Sir Lancelot, you do look like the type." She answered as he dipped the dress into the water, soaking it completely through and rendering it see through. Standing, her arms against her sides she walked slowly from the water, her body being revealed one inch at a time.

Lancelot stared at her, his dark brooding gaze fixed upon her own eyes as she walked. His body was tense and unyielding. Nothing gave away that he was shocked and slightly undone by the way she had stepped naked from the water without any hesitation. His fingers clutching the dress tightly gave him away.

Standing inches from his crouched position, Charlotte looked down upon him her slender hand outstretched.

"My dress Sir Knight." She urged wanting to have at least some shielding between her nakedness and his probing eyes. His eyes hadn't left hers, but she could feel the desire he had to look upon her body. She was almost tempted to give him permission. Almost.

Frowning his black brows coming down over his dark eyes he pulled the drenched dress from the lake and handed it to her.

Yanking it from his hands she tied it about itself and squelched the water from the thin material trying to get it as dry as humanly possible before pulling it down over her skin. It did nothing of course to hide her womanly curves and the way her nipples thrust out from her breasts.

Walking from the water Charlotte went straight past Lancelot and began to make her way back towards the castle.

"Are you coming Lancelot?" She called over her shoulder as she continued on, much colder and angrier then she had been when she had first set out.

Tristan steady gaze followed the small dainty woman who was making the rounds of the table, her slender hands clutching a large earthenware jug of ale. Her copper hair, silky and smooth, curled gently around her full round face, giving her an air of impish whiles. A smooth brown cotton dress cascaded down her curves and reached just around her ankles, the tips of her slippers peeked out from beneath the hem. Skin as white as milk tantalised his senses as he gazed upon her.

She was unlike any other woman he had ever met. She had innocence about her that no other woman could have possibly carried.

She was sweet and charming. Humours and sombre. Light and dark. Everything and nothing. She evoked emotions in him that he didn't know he even possessed. She made everything seem so clear to him and yet she confused him like no other.

Bringing the tankard of ale he had in front of him to his lips Tristan continued to watch the woman. She laughed and smiled, speaking gaily with all who would wish it. But every time her eyes would stray to his she would clam up, become sombre and dark. Her face would fall and she would become this lost little girl. He had no idea how to respond or what do when such a thing happened.

If she were a bird he would know how to make her come to him, how to tame her and conquer her. But she was a woman and thus the most confusing creature of them all.

"Remember, silver my friend, silver." Lancelot's voice beside him brought Tristan out of his endless thoughts.

"Do not worry, I have remembered the silver." He replied smiling as he drank of the ale in his tankard.

While everyone had been moving into the eating hall Tristan had snuck around to the servant's quarters and found where Evie slept. The day after he had gathered the pendent information from Lancelot he had set out for the country markets that were half a days ride from the kingdom. He had spent the rest of the day trying to find a pendent that best suited Evie. It was hard to find something for someone he barely knew. Walking along the crowded alleyways between the stalls Tristan glanced back and forth between all the wares his mind ticking over with every trinket he saw, imagining what they would all look like against Evadeen's pale skin.

Nothing had come close to the beauty of her face and body and nothing could have heightened that beauty. He was about to give up when he walked past a smaller, less crowded stall with a blind old woman sitting on a rickety old stool behind it. Her gnarled and life-wrinkled hands were busily knitting what looked to be a large wrap. Glancing down at the many silver trinkets strewn evenly and neatly across the dark wool that covered the crude table, Tristan kept his hands clasped behind his back.

"Something for your lady friend?" The old woman asked in raspy voice as she continued on with her knitting, her cloudy white eyes staring off into space.

"How does one know I am looking for something to amuse a lady friend?" Tristan asked as he glanced over a row of gem pendents hanging from slender chains.

"You love her don't you?" The woman asked completely ignoring his statement. Looking up from the table Tristan found himself looking directly into the old woman's eyes. If her eyes had not been the cloudy white testament to her blindness he would have thought her faking for she looked at him so intensely. Tearing his gaze away from her's he once again looked down upon the table to find his eyes pulled to one particular pendent. He had never see anything like it. Tiny and miniature came to mind as he stared down upon the crescent moon pendent that lay by itself on a cloth of purple velvet. The small clear jewel that sat on the bottom tip of the crescent twinkled from the sun that was now beginning to fall below the ridge of hills behind him.

"I do not think it matters whether I love her or not, for she will definitely love me for this treasure among treasures. I will take the moon pendent old woman." He said quietly as if in reference to the tiny charm that so reminded him of his fair lady.

"Nothing is certain with this lady you have given your heart to." The old woman said cryptically as she took the charm from the table and wrapped it in a tiny square piece of silk and dropped it into a velvet pouch before drawing the gold strings to pull closed. Watching the woman deftly package the gift for him Tristan waved his right hand in front of the woman's face to make sure she truly was blind.

"Do not be rude young man, it does not become you." She snapped as she held out her aged hand for the payment of the gift. Pressing a gold piece into her hand Tristan took the velvet pouch and watched her for few seconds before he began to walk away.

"She will make you fight for her love, mark my words she will make you prove yourself." He heard the old woman mutter as he walked away from her and the country markets back to his room in a small tavern.

He didn't make it back to the kingdom until the next afternoon and by that time he was too tired to talk to Lancelot about how he had taken his advice and bought Evie silver. It was only now as they sat side-by-side drinking their tankard and digging into her meal did Tristan have the chance to impart his news to Lancelot.

" 'Tis upon her pillow you say?" Lancelot sat taking a long swallow of his drink.

Nodding Tristan kept his eyes on the dainty form of the woman who so intrigued him.

"Did you leave a note to let fair maid now of your intentions? Does she know that such a beautiful jewel is from a most powerful knight and not just some besotted farm boy?" Lancelot queered as he placed his tankard upon the long dining table and let his own eyes glide towards Lady Charlotte who sat stony eyed beside their Queen.

Cursing beneath his breath Tristan quickly stood and excused himself. Chuckling Lancelot watched him go and noticed that the sparkling blue eyes of Evadeen followed his companion with interest and what looked to be the first spark of desire. Smiling at his friend's good fortune Lancelot glanced back at the cold and unfriendly face of Lady Charlotte. His good mood dissipated instantly as he once again began to contemplate where he knew this fiery wench.

When he had stumbled upon her swimming in the semi-frozen lake that sat just below the south wall of the castle images of his Water Spirit had flooded his mind, sending him deep into a black whole of despair and sadness. He hadn't realized until that moment how much he actually missed his Spirit.

The way his mood had so plummeted when he had looked upon the barely clad Charlotte explained why he had treated her the way he had by drenching her only piece of clothing and making her walk, completely naked, over to him to retrieve it. He hadn't known why he had done it, he knew now how stupid it was. But he couldn't help himself. She sent his nerves into overdrive and he wanted to know why. Pushing and pulling her in every direction was sure to make her as frustrated and annoyed as he felt constantly in her presence. It was only fair that she feel what he felt every minute he was with her.

_I will know who you are fair maiden,_ He thought to himself as he tipped his tankard towards the woman of his thoughts as she looked upon him with such pure hatred.

Charlotte watched as Lancelot tipped his tankard towards her, his face showing that the game to find out her identity had only just begun. Watching him with cold assessing eyes Charlotte tried to conceal the rage that was building up inside of her. He was looking at her as if she were a horse in a market waiting to be sold. His eyes, though handsome and brown, were lascivious and bold.

Of their own accord her eyes began to slowly appraise him, to compare all the changes he had gone through in the last fifteen years. She had to admit he was magnificent. Much taller then most warriors with curling jet-black hair, chiselled features and a body she wanted to sink her teeth into.

Clenching her hands around the armrest of her chair, Charlotte shot daggers in his direction. Where had that thought come from? She thought to herself as she felt the beginning a crimson blush flood her cheeks.

For fifteen long years she had detested him, furious with his lake of compassion for his own people, and within days of seeing him again he had some how roped her into falling for him once more.

Shaking her head she tore her gaze away from the devilled warrior to peer over at the woman sitting next to her. Guinevere was talking quietly with Arthur on her other side. Her face was soft and relaxed with the glow of love shining from it as she placed her pale hand upon her husbands. Smiling Arthur lifted said hand and kissed it gently his eyes never leaving hers. Sharpe pains of hurt and sadness shot through Charlotte as she watched the loving exchange between wife and husband. She would never admit it to anyone but she had longed for so many years to find someone to love and cherish and to build a family with. As the years had gone by her dream had withered and died and with it the hope of ever finding happiness. Her life was on the battlefield and she would probably die upon that same field. But it still did not stop the pain of knowing what she had missed out on.


End file.
